


Read All About It

by SCFrankles



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: acd_holmesfest, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I have not seen a paper for some days."</i> Dr. Watson in <i>The Boscombe Valley Mystery</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Read All About It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capt_facepalm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capt_facepalm/gifts).



> Written for the [Spring 2015 Round](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/66174.html) of [acd_holmesfest](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/) on LJ. Thank you so much to [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit) for the beta!
> 
> My recipient [capt_facepalm](http://capt-facepalm.livejournal.com/) offered the prompt “honour among thieves” and this is what I came up with. Some scenes and lines in my fic have been adapted from BOSC.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but are now in the public domain. Dr. Watson probably isn’t terribly happy about this.

It was a typical English afternoon in June—cold with a light rain—but the Watsons had made themselves snug in their sitting room. On one side of the table, Mary was looking through a copy of _London Writing,_ while on the other her husband was busy with his notebook.

Watson gazed thoughtfully at the open page and jotted down a few more sentences, humming a jolly tune as he did so.

Mary glanced up from her periodical with an amused expression. “You are writing up another of Mr. Holmes’ cases, I take it?”

“I thought I should make a start. Now that I have the time.” Watson put the notebook aside and took a sip of his tea. He leant back in his chair, and sighed in contentment.

Mary smiled at him. “You certainly deserve your holiday, dear.” 

“It is marvellous to have a few days rest,” agreed Watson. He nodded at his notebook. “After assisting Holmes on so many cases.”

“And occasionally looking after your patients too,” said Mary, raising an eyebrow.

Watson looked back at her and chuckled. “Yes, of course. Though they’re not as numerous as the cases unfortunately.” He set his cup down. “It was good of Anstruther to agree to taking over my list for a short while. Just a pity I cannot afford to take you away somewhere.”

“A little peace and quiet and your company is all I need,” said Mary, looking down again at _London Writing._ She turned the page and paused.

Watson gazed at her fondly. “That is very kind, my love, but I think we might be able to take the odd day excursion.”

Mary suddenly closed the periodical. “You know, that is a very good idea.” She smiled up at her husband. “Why don’t we go right away?”

“What?” said Watson, a little taken aback. “Now? I was feeling rather comfortable actually...”

However, Mary ignored him. “We can go to the Crystal Palace! Have a stroll around the grounds!”

Watson was bemused by his wife’s abrupt enthusiasm. “It’s quite a journey…” He gestured towards the window. “And it’s still raining.”

“No arguments! It’ll do you good to get some fresh air.” She stood up. “I’ll just have a word with Ann before we go. Make certain she knows her duties for today.” 

Watson sighed as Mary hurried out of the room. He picked up the abandoned periodical, turned to the first page, and reached for his tea.

Mary put her head back round the door. “No time for that! Go and get ready!”

Watson rolled his eyes. However, he put aside _London Writing,_ and went to find his boots, coat and umbrella.

 

 

It was late when they finally returned home, somewhat damp. 

“Thank you, Ann,” said Mary, after the maid had let them in. “If you would fetch us some tea, I think that will be all for the night.” 

The girl curtseyed and left them, and the Watsons made their way into the sitting room.

Watson groaned and sank down into his armchair. “I am more exhausted than if I’d gone on a case! Or seen a hundred patients!”

Mary sat down opposite him. “Did you not enjoy our little trip then?” she asked.

“Well…” Watson looked up at her. “Yes, I suppose it was a pleasant change.” He shifted in his seat. “Though I found the three hours we spent in the Great Maze somewhat excessive. I did begin to suspect you were deliberately steering us in the wrong direction.”

“Heavens, John,” said Mary. Her gaze drifted away from his face. “Surely you couldn’t think I would do such a thing.”

Watson narrowed his eyes at her for a moment. Then he sighed. “I suppose not.” He made to get up.

“Are you going to bed, dear?” asked Mary, bringing her gaze back to him.

“No, I thought I might…” Watson started searching around. “Have you seen that copy of _London Writing_?”

“ _London_..?” Mary looked around vaguely. “No, I don’t think so…”

The maid entered the room with the tea tray. She set it down and poured out two cups.

“Ann,” said Watson. “The periodical. Where did you put it?”

“Oh, I…” Ann glanced at Watson and then looked at the floor. “I think… I think I must have used it to light the stove, sir.”

Watson frowned. “Truly? That is really too bad of you.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” She turned to Mary, still not looking up. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

“Yes, Ann. Thank you,” said Mary.

The maid rushed out of the room.

Watson watched her go and then looked at his wife. “I did not mean to upset the girl. She’s not usually so nervous.” 

“No…” said Mary. She fiddled with her hair. “Is… is the tea ready, dear?”

“Oh. Yes, it is.” 

Watson picked up the cups, passed one of them to his wife, and then settled down in his armchair to drink his own. The tea quickly soothed him and soon the missing periodical disappeared from his mind. 

 

 

Watson slept a little past his normal time the following morning. 

When he came down he found Mary had already finished eating and was making her way through the early paper. He joined her at the table and rang for his breakfast. 

Mary frowned and smiled to herself as she moved from article to article. Watson smiled too, and turned his attention to the door in case his eggs were on their way.

“Oh, my goodness!”

Watson turned back to his wife. “Something interesting in the paper, dearest?”

“Oh, yes…” Mary gave him a weak smile. “Rather exciting… jam recipes.”

Watson raised his eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t understand, dear. Feminine interests,” said Mary. She folded up the newspaper tightly and put it to one side. 

Watson was about to press the matter further when the maid entered the room.

“Mr. Anstruther begs your pardon but wonders if he could speak to you for a moment about a patient,” said Ann.

“Yes, of course,” said Watson. He turned to Mary. “I’ll speak to him in my consulting room.” 

And he followed Ann out into the hall.

When Watson remembered the newspaper later in the day, Mary eventually recalled she must have given it to Ann to wrap vegetable peelings in. 

 

 

The few days of rest finally came to an end. 

Watson and Mary had risen bright and early and were once again at their breakfast, Watson eating heartily in anticipation of a hard day ahead.

Ann entered holding an envelope, and a paper tucked under her arm. “A telegram, sir,” she said, and handed the envelope to Watson. 

He ripped it open and quickly read the brief message, frowning a little.

Mary sipped her tea and replaced the cup. “Who is it from, dear?” 

“Holmes,” said Watson. “He wants me to help with a case—go with him to Herefordshire for a couple of days. “ He put the telegram down and sighed. “I can’t, naturally. Poor Anstruther cannot be expected to look after my patients all the time.”

“It is a shame,” agreed Mary. “The trip would have done you the world of good. But you’re quite right.” She turned to Ann. “I wonder, could you bring us a fresh pot of tea?”

Watson looked up as the maid started to leave. “Is that the morning paper you’ve got there? I don’t think I’ve seen one for a while.”

The maid slowly turned and stared at him.

“Well?” smiled Watson. “May I have it?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.” Ann looked beseechingly at Mary. 

“Oh!” Mary jumped to her feet, and Watson looked at her in some surprise.

“Is everything all right, dear?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “However, I have been thinking. You should perhaps go and assist Mr. Holmes after all.” 

She came over to him and pulled on his arm. 

“Quickly, now! You must go and pack!”

“But..!” protested Watson, attempting to free himself from his wife. “I have my patients, if you recall!”

“Anstruther will not mind looking after them for a few more days,” said Mary. She had got Watson onto his feet and was now pushing him towards the door.

“I rather fear he might,” said Watson. “Mary, what are you..?”

“I will take care of everything. You must not worry!”

Watson found himself propelled out of the sitting room and towards the stairs. 

“Go and pack!” said Mary.

Watson shook his head in bemusement but went and did as he was told.

 

 

Holmes greeted him warmly on the platform at Paddington Station and soon they were on a train hurtling towards Herefordshire. 

The early parts of the journey were spent with Holmes working his way through an enormous pile of newspapers. Watson gazed at them rather longingly before deciding to contemplate the passing scenery instead.

Eventually, having come to the end of his studies, Holmes turned his attention to his colleague. 

“So have you heard anything about the Boscombe Valley tragedy?” he asked.

“No, nothing,” said Watson, looking back from the window. “I haven’t seen a paper in days.”

“There has not been much about it in the London papers anyway,” said Holmes. “I shall just explain what I—”

_“In days…”_ Watson furrowed his brow. “Do you know, it truly _has_ been days since I read a paper…”

“Oh? Well, no matter. Now, the facts that I know so far are—”

Watson’s frown grew deeper. “Or even a periodical… I buy them, I bring them home, and they just vanish away.”

“A mystery for another time,” said Holmes. “Now, the facts…”

Watson was not listening. 

“If I did not know better I would believe my household was conspiring together to ensure I never read anything ever again. So far my printed matter has been used to light the stove, to wrap the potato peelings, to line drawers in the kitchen…” He looked at Holmes. “Mary and Ann are not usually so careless. I don’t know what’s got into them.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Watson. The case..?”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” Watson felt somewhat embarrassed. “Do go on with your explanation, old chap.”

And so Holmes began to tell him of the murder of one Mr. Charles McCarthy.

 

 

Watson returned home the following evening.

“John!” beamed Mary, and kissed him. “Did you and Mr. Holmes solve the case?”

Watson smiled at her. “Naturally. Holmes has uncovered the innocence of the suspected murderer and should be able to secure his freedom.”

“That is wonderful,” said Mary, taking his coat and hanging it up. “So, you have discovered the true murderer?”

“Ah.” Watson looked away and back at his wife. “Well, there are some aspects that cannot…” 

He thought of his and Holmes’ promise to the real murderer, and cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Do you know, I had an odd realisation while travelling to Herefordshire.”

Mary wrinkled her brow at this change in direction. “Yes..?”

“I was telling Holmes about it—I haven’t seen a London paper or periodical at all in several days.” Watson glanced about. “In fact, is there an evening paper in the house? It would be nice to sit and read after my journey.”

It was Mary’s turn to look away. “There was one a little earlier but I believe Ann has…”

“Used it to wrap a parcel for Tipperary? To make early Christmas decorations? To create her own flotilla to sail in the kitchen sink?” Watson frowned. “Really, Mary. What is going on?”

Mary sighed. “Perhaps we should go and sit down.” 

 

 

“So tell me. Please,” said Watson, once they were settled in their chairs in the sitting room.

“It’s nothing really.” Mary was not meeting her husband’s eye. “It’s simply… There was something in _London Writing._ A poem. A satirical poem.” She glanced up briefly. “About you and your novels.”

“Oh.” Watson stared at her.

“I did not want you to be upset,” said Mary, stroking the arm of her chair. “So I attempted to distract you with an excursion. Before we left I asked Ann to dispose of the periodical, and I hoped if I kept you out all day you might forget about it altogether.” 

She looked up. 

“And I thought that was that. But the next day there was a… humorous… article in the paper about the poem. And readers began writing letters to the editor about it—some defending you, others not.” Mary gave a weak smile. “Some of them penning their own additional verses for the poem…”

Watson’s eyebrows rose.

“I thought I was acting for the best!” said Mary. “Keeping it all from you.”

Watson lent forward and gently took her hand. “Mary, my love. I have gone into battle. I have been shot. _I have lived with Sherlock Holmes._ Do you truly believe a poem could worry me?”

Mary sighed. “No. No, I suppose not.”

Watson patted the back of her hand. “I am touched you care enough to go to all this trouble but you _were_ worrying about nothing.” He gave a little smile. “In fact, I would like to see this mysterious poem. But I suppose the periodical has been destroyed to spare my feelings.”

“I do believe…” Mary hesitated. “...Ann has been keeping a scrapbook of everything.” She gazed anxiously at Watson. “Don’t be angry with her. Just try and remember how difficult it is to find a good maid, dearest.”

Watson laughed out loud. “Of course I’m not angry.” He patted Mary’s hand once more and then released it. “Go and ask Ann if I can please borrow her book.”

“If you are sure…” Reluctantly, Mary rose and went to fetch the scrapbook.

 

 

Watson turned over the last page and closed the book. He sat for a moment with it on his knee.

Mary stood over him and smiled nervously. “It wasn’t that bad, after all? I was making a fuss about nothing?”

Watson looked up. “I think I might just lie down in our room for a while.”

Mary’s face fell. “It did upset you!”

“I do feel a little shaken,” agreed Watson.

Mary straightened her shoulders and attempted a smile. “Oh, come! John Watson distressed by a mere poem?” She seized the scrapbook from Watson’s lap, and opened it. “Look, it’s not all unpleasant. I believe it to be quite appreciative of your work in parts.”

She glanced down at the page.

“What about: _‘He constructs his daring fairy tale…’”_

Watson grimaced. “Not terribly flattering, dear, when you are writing about things that are supposed to have actually happened.”

Mary looked at the poem once more. “Well, what about: _‘Humming to himself as he composes his poetry…’_ That seems perfectly delightful.”

“Again, in context, I do not think ‘poetry’ is meant in an entirely positive—” Watson paused. “May I see the book, dearest?”

Mary cautiously handed the scrapbook back to Watson, who took it and stared at the poem for a long moment. 

“ _‘Humming to himself as he...’_ Blast the—!” Watson raised his eyes to Mary. “If you will excuse me, my love, I must just go and see Holmes about this matter.” 

 

 

Watson strode into the sitting room that had once been partly his own. A room filled with happy memories—a room where he had spent many companionable evenings with his dearest friend.

“You wretched man!” yelled Watson.

Holmes looked up from his experiment and Watson waved the scrapbook at him. Holmes frowned at it. For once he seemed puzzled. 

“ _London Writing_?” said Watson.

Holmes’ expression cleared. “Ah.” 

“ _‘Humming to himself’,_ indeed...!” Watson attempted to regain control of himself, taking a deep breath. He looked pointedly at Holmes. “It was my wife who noticed it, shortly after we married. I write up my patients’ notes in silence, I write letters in silence. But when I write up your cases I hum to myself. Perhaps recalling your violin, Mary suggested.” 

Watson opened the scrapbook and pointed at the poem. 

“This author is aware of my habit. So it must be someone I have shared accommodation with since meeting you. And…” He glared at Holmes. “I do not believe the poet to be Mary!”

Watson threw the scrapbook onto the table in front of his colleague.

“You have made me a laughing stock!”

Holmes slowly reached for the book and turned over a few pages. Then he stood up and reached out to Watson, tentatively putting his hand on his shoulder. 

Watson gave him a very hard look but did not move away.

“I must apologise, my dear fellow. I did not anticipate this would happen.” Holmes gestured with his free hand at the scrapbook. “You know about my liking for practical jokes. I simply thought it would amuse you when you pointed out that ridiculous poem and I admitted it was mine.”

Watson studied Holmes’ penitent face and felt himself starting to bend a little. “Well, yes. Maybe I did overreact somewhat…”

However, it appeared Holmes had not finished. 

“And it did not occur to me that anyone would be particularly interested in your writing.”

Watson stared at him. 

Holmes watched his face for a moment, and carefully removed his hand from his shoulder. “Watson…”

Watson turned away and calmly picked up the scrapbook, and then just as calmly faced Holmes again.

“Foolishly, I once believed us to be friends,” he said. “However, apparently I was mistaken.”

Holmes now seemed alarmed. “My dear fellow…” 

“I wish you good day, sir.” And Watson turned on his heel and left, Holmes calling after him.

 

 

Mary entered the sitting room with a telegram, and Watson glanced up at her from where he was writing at his desk.

“Another communication from Holmes?”

Mary nodded and Watson scowled. “Well, my answer remains the same.”

“I imagined it would, dear,” said Mary, primly. “And it’s still an answer I do not feel comfortable repeating to the young lady at the telegraph office.”

Watson smiled a little though he pretended not to. Mary came over to him, and glanced down at his work.

“You are continuing to work on your reprisal then?”

“It’s finished.” Watson closed the notebook and offered it to Mary. “Would you like to read it?”

Mary hesitated and then sighed. “Yes, thank you. I think I should.”

She went and settled herself in her armchair and there was silence for a while as she read and Watson watched her.

At last, Mary looked up beaming. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” Looking down again at the notebook, she read out the story’s title. “ _‘A Scandal in Bohemia’._ ” She smiled over at her husband. “Although you surely cannot count this as your revenge. Yes, Irene Adler bested Sherlock Holmes but it’s a marvellous adventure. In fact…” Her smile became a trifle wider. “I do believe you have already forgiven Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, maybe in a few more days.” Watson came and collected the book from Mary, and went and sat back down at his desk. “I do have the greatest admiration and respect for Holmes, you know.” He opened the notebook again. “I just sometimes feel the need to beat him around the head with his own hunting crop.”

Watson picked up his pen and contemplated his work. 

“Perhaps I could just add the fact he picks his nose when he thinks no-one is watching…”

Mary laughed. “I wouldn’t, dear. It would spoil your story.” 

She crossed to his desk and rested her hand on his shoulder. Watson turned a little and reached up his own hand to cover hers.

Mary smiled down at him. “You must consider your audience,” she said. “Drugs, shootings and satirical poetry are all very well, but I think there is probably a limit to what the reading public can bear.”

**Author's Note:**

> My story was inspired by the fact that Arthur Guiterman wrote a satirical poem _To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,_ which was published in _London Opinion,_ 14th December 1912. ACD wrote a reply, _To an Undiscerning Critic,_ which was published in _London Opinion,_ 28th December 1912. The text of both poems can be found [here](http://www.sshf.com/encyclopedia/index.php/To_An_Undiscerning_Critic) at www.sshf.com


End file.
